That's Not How It Ends
by mis palabras
Summary: I was heart broken at the thought of Gene being left all alone in that big bad world, end of S3. So I've added a bit! Thank you SO much for the positive reviews - they really mean a lot. You've inspired me to start writing another chapter! xx
1. Chapter 1

It was a bitingly cold winter's morning. The sky stretched low, mussel grey and ominous, layered with car fumes that fogged the air. Hunt walked briskly into HQ, his footsteps crunching purposefully over the frost.

He'd had quite a lot to think about over the last few months. Had time to come to terms with some unpleasant facts that had packed a vicious punch. Improbable impossible impractical interpretations of that which he'd called life. But he'd finally realised, thanks to a unexpected ray of clarity that had broken through the whiskey haze; that once all the craziness was stripped away, once you looked at the situation for what it really was ... well, it simmered down to just two choices: flight or fight. Sink or swim. And Hunt was nothing if he wasn't an all fighting, strong swimming bastard. So he'd pushed the craziest of the shit to one side, to be sifted through at a later, unspecified date. He'd cut down on the drinking and thrown himself back into CID. With a new team around him, he'd worked hard to get the cogs working as smoothly as they should, oiling the machinery with liberal amounts of late night drinking, football talk and tit jokes.

Luigi's had closed down at the end of the summer. And whilst losing that last link to them ... to her ... had nearly cut him adrift again, instead of being swept away he'd clung on by his fingertips to the new life he was determinedly shaping for himself. And when the premises reopened as The Greek, he allowed it to suit him and his new team down to the ground. The owner, Billy, was thrilled to have their custom, treated them like the Sheriffs they were; retsina all round and a generous hand with the ouzo. Hunt even succumbed occasionally to the amorous advances made by Billy's busty cousin, Luella. Not often enough to suit her, just once in a while, to keep his hand in. So all in all, he was doing ok. Life ... as it was, went on.

Nodding at Watkins, the desk sergeant, Hunt continued on his way to his office. Looking forward to nothing more than smearing City's weekend win in the faces of the two nancy boys on his team who were daft enough to admit supporting United.

He began the morning sweep past Jim's old office, narrowing his eyes at the lingering memories of that crazy nut job. This time, however, Hunt's pace faltered. He couldn't help but notice a crack of dirty orange light seeping out from under the door - he paused ... did he feel warmer as he stood here, did the air feel a little heavier? Hunt's face darkened to a scowl. Eyes cold, he (unusually tentative) stretched a hand towards the door handle. As his fingers closed around it (the metal definitely feeling warmer than it should) the door whipped open. Revealing that mad git's bespectacled, beaming face.

"Gene! I've been wondering when our paths would cross. Don't you think it's time we got on with the rematch?"

No. NO. Jim Keats was VERY FIRMLY at the bottom of Hunt's list of things to be thought about sometime NEVER. What the fuck was he doing back at Fenchurch East? Hunt grimly shoved the grinning loon back inside the uncomfortably stuffy room, slamming the door behind him.

Gripping Keats' collar firmly, Hunt slammed him viciously against the nearest wall and hoisted him up, up, up until the only purchase Keats had on the floor was by scrabbling tip toe.

Leaning close, Hunt hissed, mere millimetres from Keats' face "You? You belong in my PAST. You have no place here, none whatsoever. So make your miserable existence that much easier by DOING ONE. NOW."

To Hunt's consternation, Keats began to giggle. Wheezily, given his precarious position, but a giggle nonetheless.

"Gene. Dear old, silly old Gene Genie. Did you REALLY think that was the last you'd seen of me?"

And with that he feebly pushed back at Hunt. The dark threat in Keats' words had the strength to do what his puny arms could not and Hunt took a step back. Everything he'd tried so hard, so DAMN hard, to push away, to suppress, came swamping back into his mind.

His grave.

Drake.

The team.

Drake ...

Keats' laughing face.

Oh, he'd punch that fucking face in a minute, he just felt ... curiously winded by the flashbacks, the memories, the ugly unpalatable truth he'd tried to forget. He wasn't helped by the stale air that was circulating sluggishly round the room. Staggering ever so slightly, he pulled his tie loose, fought to take in a decent breath.

And then it was Keats' turn to loom over Hunt. Pushing his face up close, his breath smelling rotten. Dead. How apt.

"You may have won that skirmish Gene. That one tiny ... insignificant little scrap. But I'm not going anywhere. And for every lost soul that ends up here for Daddy Gene to save - well, Uncle JIMMY'S gonna be here too, trailing your EVERY move, tempting and tantalising and teasing until they TURN ON YOU, and your Neolithic, time addled ways and come DOWNSTAIRS, with ME!"

With each shout, Jim Keats jabbed Hunt spitefully in the shoulder, pushing him, shoving him again and again, until Hunt finally felt the wall holding steady behind him. Keats' breath revolted him, the spittle that accompanied his poisonous words threatening to make the Gene Genie spew up last night's steak and chips. Hunt turned his face to the ceiling, fighting for a clean breath, a chestful of air to cool his burning lungs.

With an unexpected crash, the office door flew open, flooding the fetid room with light and a fresh breeze. Both men blinked at the intrusion, and at the figure that stood silhouetted by the light from the corridor.

No more than 5ft 5. A distinctly feminine figure, curvy (great tits, Hunt's mind supplied, on autopilot). Dressed in a tight sweater, pencil skirt, sheer stockings and vertiginous peep toe heels. She stepped forward, out of the glare. Lush brunette pony tail swinging with the movement, silver hooped earrings catching the light, flicked eyeliner framing expressive green eyes. Plump lips curled into a grim smile. One hand holding the door open, one hand on her hip, she spoke, her voice low and measured.

"Jim! Fancy starting the party without me", she made a sad little moue of disappointment.

Jim Keats jerked quickly out of the light and away from the woman as though her proximity pained him in some way.

"What. The FUCK. Are YOU doing here? Who authorised this? Fenchurch East is supposed to be MINE, Gene Hunt and his team are for ME, this ... squalid little corner of eighties human drama was promised for JIM. KEATS!" The man's furious words failed to hide the tension, the nervous squeak and trill to his voice.

The woman, whoever she was, let go of the door where it promptly slammed shut. She sauntered past Hunt who took a second to revel in the cool air that seemed to swirl around her, the ocean fresh breeze that emanated from this attractively packaged plot twist. She strode without hesitation right up to Keats who, to Hunt's disbelief, backed away from her until he was cowering against the desk.

"Oh Jim" a smile in her voice, "did you really think you'd be able to waltz in here and just - take it all? If you WANT Fenchurch East - if you WANT Gene Hunt ... then you should be aware that we're going to fight hard to keep it ... fight dirty to keep him ..."

Keats gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically up and down.

"Wait, wait a sec, just a sec, what's all this fighting talk? Surely we can come to a better arrangement, a partnership, some sort of deal - let's discuss it sometime, away from here, somewhere nice, over dinner, good bottle of wine, you and me, it's been too long ..."

Keats' voice was quavering, cringing. The woman didn't dignify his pathetic invitation with a response, her iced glare and perfectly arched eyebrow was enough to silence Keats, who looked seconds away from scuttling under the desk itself.

Hunt finally found his voice. "Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck is going on?" he ground out, this was getting too tasty for a Monday morning, it was about time he reminded everyone he was Gene Hunt and this was his patch.

The woman turned and walked back to Hunt, finally coming face to face with him. She stood tall, her green eyes appraising, a hint of a smile on her lips as she took in the absolute legend of a man in front of her.

"DCI Hunt? DI Ruby Chaussures. Sent on long term secondment from upstairs. For as long as you need me, Guv."


	2. Chapter 2

Hunt pursed his lips suspiciously, his hard stare pummelling Ruby's clear gaze. This morning was coming perilously close to careering out of control, skidding and sliding off into disorder. Time for the Gene Genie to take back the wheel.

"_Chaussures_? Wossat, FRENCH? Just my luck." Hunt paused, allowing scathing derision to well up and spill over into his voice. "Follow me, Frenchie - we need to talk" he snarled. This needed sorting but not in Keats' hell hole.

"Certainly Guv. After you ..." and Ruby pulled the door open smartly. Hunt walked out followed by the new DI, neither of them sparing a glance at the wretch they left behind.

Hunt strode quickly down the corridor, his mind trying to race but getting tangled at every turn. He was supremely aware of an efficient tread echoing his footsteps, who the bloody hell was this woman, turning up out of the blue? A twist in his gut reminded him that to all intents and purposes she'd 'rescued' him from that arse twat Keats. He vowed to crank up his bastardness from here on in, couldn't allow word to leak out that he needed 'saving', not by _anyone_, not least a woman.

He shot straight through CID, overcoat flapping anxiously in his wake. He was followed by Ruby. Marching right up to his office, he ushered her inside before slamming the door, causing the cheap blinds to chatter in protest. Christ, he could use a drink but before 10am was early, even by his standards. Instead he faced her, this woman, and took a step forward. Then another. Deliberately using his bulk and height to crowd her, intimidate her, force her to lift her chin in order to maintain eye contact. To her credit she didn't step back, even though Hunt was close enough to hear her breathe in sharply, see her instinctively square her shoulders. So he'd unnerved her? Good. That was more like it.

Hunt spoke, his lip curled, the words sliding out from between his teeth "Now look here, Ruby Tuesday, whatever your name is. The only department upstairs is TYPING. And last time I checked, the old dears up there didn't keep spare DIs stashed away, for us to break out in case of an emergency. So I'll ask you once more and you'll tell me the truth if you know what's good for you - who the fuck are you and where the FUCK have you come from?"

Ruby held his gaze impassively but inside, she was squirming. This could go one of two ways ...

"The _SUPER_ from _UPSTAIRS_" she emphasised, "thought you might need a second. After ... recent events." Right. Too obvious? Too oblique?

There followed a silence so loaded Ruby was surprised the office floor didn't give way and cave in. 

"Did he now ... "

Hunt pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. To Go There or Not. To Go There.

hewasn'tready  
hewasn'tready  
hewasn'tready  
hewasn'tready  
hewasn'tready 

(Would he ever be ...?)

"Well." He stopped. Cleared his throat and started again, forcing an extra shot of vitriol into his tone "Well, not sure I need your _sort_ on my team. Don't know if we've room for you here," ice cold, looking right through her, "We're ticking along nicely as we are, ta very much ..." He left it at that, knowing she'd fill the silence he'd deliberately left, women always did.

"Your call, Guv." Ruby felt her face flush and glanced away, that he wouldn't want her was unexpected.

He watched her, noticed the pink blossom in her cheeks and immediately felt more himself. Back in control, back in the lead. Able to objectively (really, Gene?) listen to the part of his anatomy that was murmuring it might be nice to have a pretty face around the place again. Because that was ALL she was: a pretty face on top of a great pair, pedalled along by fantastic legs. Nothing more. He certainly didn't NEED her (a tiny voice deep down thought about objecting, considered reminding him about the encounter with Keats not ten minutes ago ... but took a look at the expression on his face, the set of his jaw, and let its objections drift away).

Ruby looked back up at the Guv and took in his arctic glare. She chided herself, realising she'd dented his ego, scratched down its length like a key to a car. Even so, did he really expect her to pout prettily and ask nicely to be in his gang, on his team? Bugger that.

Nodding decisively, "I see. Well, why don't I leave you to consider your options, Sir? Just give me a shout when you've come to a decision. I'll be outside." Having aced the ball firmly back into his court, she smiled sweetly and breezed out of Hunt's office, the door swinging shut before he had time to close his mouth.

Ignoring the blatant stares and whispered ribaldry from Hunt's team, Ruby aimed for the empty desk directly outside the Guv's office window. It had obviously been left fallow for some time; crops of crockery and sheafs of discarded paper had flourished to the point of running wild. Piling the paper neatly to one side, she swiftly dusted biscuit crumbs into the bin. She worked quickly to stack tannin stained mugs on top of plates thick with a bacon ketchup sludge before depositing them in the small kitchen. Putting the kettle on to boil, she spotted a lone clean plate that she soon piled high with bourbons and pink wafers. A few minutes later, she was making her way back to the cleared desk with a tray of elevenses that included gallons of coppers' tea; brick orange and sweet enough to make your teeth wave a flag and beg for mercy.

Within seconds she was surrounded by Hunt's team where mugs were issued, names collected, charm dispensed.

Hunt, lured out of his lair by the sounds of revelry, fully expected to see his men hustling the woman. His ears were pricked; he was looking forward to hearing a few coarse puns that might make her blush again if he was lucky. Imagine his surprise when he saw her sitting pretty on a tidy desk (where had that come from?) surrounded by his men who were falling over themselves to "Have another biscuit, no after you mate, no really you have it". What? Pussies and pansies the lot of them, he'd raised them to behave better than this. He drew breath in order to raze this little tea party to the ground when Ruby noticed him standing there, on the outskirts, the periphery. She stood quickly and walked towards him, bearing gifts of steaming hot tea in his own special tankard and an unopened packet of garibaldis.

"Boss? The men have been getting me up to speed on your case load. I could take the drug dealing on Reed Street off your hands?"

Truth be told, Hunt was still wavering over which way to go on this one. Not that he'd admit it, but there was something ... strangely appealing about her - this unspeakably inscrutably aggravating woman who had wrong footed him for most of the morning. Despite his reservations, his instinct was nagging him to keep her handy. So he played for time by taking a slow sip from his tankard. He'd be able to buy himself another couple of minutes by telling her how shit her tea was. The terracotta brew was strong enough to make his nostrils flare, the strength tempered marginally by a hit of sweet that only came from five plus sugars. Hm. She'd only made the perfect cuppa. Bollocks.

Taking care to keep his face free from expression, he grunted "Well, you've made yourself at home. May as well stay. You lot!" raising his voice, "get back to work! You're not paid to mince around having poncey little tea breaks!"

He unwittingly caught her eye, clocked her smile, picked up the scent of relief. And with his words still bouncing off the polystyrene ceiling tiles, he retreated back to his den. Kicking the door shut behind him, to enjoy his own tea break in peace. He felt a bit queer to be honest, there was a fluttering deep in his stomach, his blood was rushing in his ears. Unbeknown to him, a small rebellious grin tugged at the corners of his lips ...


	3. Chapter 3

Ruby gazed into the distance; eyes slightly narrowed and fixed on nothing in particular. Her elbows were resting on the worn pine of her kitchen table, her hands were loosely curled around a mug of tea that had long since lost interest in sharing its comforting warmth with her. The day bustled busily towards late afternoon, leaving her languishing behind. A desolate figure, still in her (men's, navy blue with white piping - cosy leftovers from a forgotten take away) pyjamas, hair bundled up, face bare. The sound of traffic below the kitchen window provided a soothing background to the thoughts that were consuming her until an outburst of rude honking made her blink, waking her up. She glanced at the cooker clock, took a double take and swore under her breath, she'd didn't want to be late.

The dregs of her thoughts insisted on accompanying her into the shower and out again, before swirling toxically around her as she got dressed. Applying mascara, her mind lost interest in the task and slipped back to that evening ten days ago when stupid Ruby had spoilt everything ... 

... CID had been celebrating. Six days of around the clock surveillance had presented them with enough evidence to finally take down local scum bag, Dale Armstrong. The day had begun with an explosive, thunderous arrest and lunch breaks had been rained off by a storm of aggressive interrogations that had culminated in Armstrong being dragged down to the holding cells. Hunt's team had spent the rest of the afternoon repeating lines from the final, conclusive interview. "You can't do this!" and "I'll get you, you bastards!" were popular favourites, bandied about in a variety of increasingly loud and camp intonations.

After the Everest of paperwork had finally been conquered, a selection box of detectives, sergeants and constables had headed en masse to The Greek. Once ensconced, they'd near enough drunk it dry with Billy looking on, shining with paternal pride, basking in the rays of CID's success. Beaming genially, the barrel bellied proprietor expansively excused the behaviour of 'his boys' to the few customers who were brave enough to enter the taverna, despite the rowdiness that burst from the seams of the building.

Hunt had been on top form. Eyes glinting, he'd sealed each story told with a stamp of trade-marked Gene Genie wit, his team spluttering and choking on their cheap retsina. They'd crowded round him, jostling and revelling in the camaraderie, eagerly waiting the next joke.

Ruby had been celebrating her own victories that night. After oh-so-patiently biding her time with the team ("Make us a cuppa whilst you're in the kitchen, thanks doll") she had finally managed to catch the opportunity and tackle her way into the scrum of the action. It had been her idea to plant a wire in the Men's of Armstrong's local boozer, her plan to put undercover plods behind the bar and her instinct that had nudged Hunt's team towards pulling in Mindy; Armstrong's put upon sister-in-law and barmaid, who turned out to be itching to spill. That evening, CID had been loud in their appreciation of their DI's intuition and perception. They'd drawn her into the centre of their celebrations where she'd propped up the bar, elbow to elbow alongside Hunt. Providing a dry commentary on the Guv's caustic observations, their double act had nearly sent the rest of the team into convulsions of delight.

Ruby drained her wine glass heartily (she was on her third or fourth, meaning the reflexive grimace that had been following each sip had finally stopped) and took a second to take in the ruddy, shining, laughing faces around her. She felt a nudge at her elbow and turning, offered her glass to accept a refill from Hunt. Their eyes met and she grinned widely at him. To her delight, he smiled back and clinked his pint glass to the wine glass she still held out. As he turned back to answer a question from one of the team, Ruby relaxed against the bar; still wearing the grin she'd shone at Hunt. Her relationship with the Guv ... well, that was under ongoing construction. He was one of the most unreadable, unfathomable men she'd ever met. What she wouldn't give to be able to peel away that impenetrable mask he wore, to find out what he was thinking about on those occasions she risked stealing a glance at him only to find him looking, inscrutably, at her. She saw every day as another chance to inch her way further through the tangled barbed wire that guarded his defences. She understood his reservations, had been fully briefed on the situation but had hoped that he would get used to her and recognise her as the asset she could be, if he would only let her. But Christ, it was a slow process. For every step forward they haltingly took, Hunt seemed to foxtrot them two or three paces back again. On the best days, they were like a high wire trapeze act; guesses and suppositions flung from one and caught, supported, developed by the other, leaving the rest of the team with wide eyes and open mouths. On the worst days? Well, that was when Ruby was invisible to Hunt. He didn't shout at her, he didn't swear at her, he didn't even look at her. And the rest of his team were always so bloody quick to follow his lead. It was at those times that behind her practised and polished smile, she savagely cursed Drake and the mess she'd made of things. But the smile, the clink? Her grin broadened; perhaps her perseverance was finally, finally beginning to pay off.

The evening fizzed over with bonhomie and booze. The hands on the clock marched steadily past 11pm, trampled ruthlessly over midnight and just as they started their assault on 1am, Ruby eased herself off her bar stool and slid to the floor. A damn good evening didn't change her early start tomorrow. She began issuing _Good Nights_ and _See Yous_, along with a handful of sharp variations on _Watch It, Sergeant_ to the team's latest recruit, Dai Rhys. He'd transferred from Cardiff a couple of weeks ago; a thirty something pretty boy who felt Ruby should be grateful for his attention and viewed her resistance as a tedious waste of time before the inevitable. Cocky and confident with just enough of a sense of humour to make him tolerable. Not that tolerable though, Ruby thought as she batted his eager hands away from her assets for the thousandth time since his arrival. Suddenly Hunt's voice boomed over the Cypriot folk music that Billy insisted on playing. "Rhys? Rhys! Are you trying to slip a little something from the Valleys in between those frog's legs again? Good God man, put her down" and with that Hunt clamped down firmly on Rhys' shoulder and steered him back to his empty seat. Finding himself sat instead of stood, Rhys washed away his disgruntlement with the last inch from one of the wine bottles that were having their own party on the table in front of him.

Ruby smiled up at Hunt as she pulled on her mac, "Cheers Guv."

"Hm. You'll have to do something about him Frenchie, this is getting boring. Time to let the lad down gently, eh"

She pouted, "Guv, I've tried everything bar semaphore"

"Maybe it's the semaphore he's waiting for, randy Welsh bastard, all that waving and waggling around. Right, you ready or what?"

Ruby looked blank. Hunt sighed "I'm seeing you home you dozy mare, you're pissed"

"I am?"

"Yes. C'mon, we're going"

Walking out of the tavern and up the winding steps, into the night, Ruby realised that unfortunately, Hunt seemed to be right. She did feel a little giddy. She held firmly on to the banister and took a deep breath to steady herself. He might be right but she'd be damned if she let him know.

The bite in the air nipped viciously through Ruby's thin mac, shivers rippling over her as she pulled her coat closer. She started walking over to where Hunt stood, hands in pockets, eyeing her critically. Right then Ruby, head up, shoulders down, nice straight line towards him. Not pissed at all. Not a bit.

Oh.

Kerbstone.

Crap.

Ruby saved herself from falling with a second of waving and waggling, reminiscent of the semaphore Rhys was supposedly anticipating. Hunt sighed loudly and thought darks thoughts about Women Who Couldn't Hold Their Drink. Ruby finally made it on to the pavement and smiled brightly. Manfully holding his tongue (credit where it was due, she'd worked hard on this case and deserved to celebrate. Didn't mean he wouldn't take the piss tomorrow though) Hunt extended the crook of his arm to her. She grasped it gratefully, he felt steady and strong under her grip.

They walked together through the quiet streets, Hunt secretly enjoying the pressure of Ruby's fingers, the warmth from her body - knowing that to strangers they would look like more than colleagues. He slowed his stride to a stroll in order to swagger a little, told her stories to make her laugh. He wouldn't have admitted it to himself but he liked how she walked in step with him, liked how her perfume twirled lazily around them both, the same appealing ocean fresh breeze he'd noticed on her first day.

And then they were in front of the green door that led up to Ruby's flat. It had loomed out of nowhere, surprising them both with how quickly they had arrived at their destination. Which is when Ruby made the stupid mistake. The mistake that had changed everything. Still chuckling at his last tale of drunken debauchery, she had thanked him for seeing her home before lifting her hand to his face and stretching upwards ... to deposit the tiniest of kisses on his stubbled cheek, near the corner of his smiling mouth.

And then, as though in slow motion, Ruby watched as Hunt seemed to freeze. Ice crackling through his body, spreading up his face, an avalanche that swept away his smile and smothered the laughter lines, stamping out the spark in his eyes that had been kindled during the walk. An icy mask settled belligerently over his features. Without moving, he suddenly seemed a million miles away.

Ruby stepped back. The look on his face scaring the words she planned to say, leaving them cowering in her throat. She pushed a smile stricken with stage fright onto her lips, shoehorned cheeriness into her voice, "Night then ..."

But Hunt had already turned, was walking off. His over coat trailing behind him, reluctantly it seemed to Ruby, as though it was trying to keep its distance.

Ruby trailed up the three flight of stairs to her flat. Without knowing exactly why, she knew she'd fucked up. And the next day in the office had confirmed her fears. The tiny green shoots of a working relationship she'd been coaxing from the reluctant stony ground had been trampled on by her thoughtless actions. Why the not-even-a-kiss had been such a tidal wave crashing over their partnership she wasn't sure, but one thing was certain, there were only ruins left where foundations had once been.

The nauseating array of emotions that plagued Ruby in the days that followed took her by surprise: confusion (had she really meant to kiss him?) that kaleidoscoped into humiliation (oh God, the look on his face) all the way round to an unfamiliar despondency (did he really hate her that much?) before returning to confusion (why did she even care?).

When the maelstrom finally began to settle, Ruby was left sure of only one thing. The facts were, simply, that she'd been transferred to Fenchurch East to be Gene Hunt's right hand man. Someone he could rely on completely, someone who wasn't going to let him down and leave. Anything else had to be ignored. She realised that she'd very nearly ruined everything with her tipsy antics and knew she had to act quickly before the rot set in for good. A week to the day of Armstrong's arrest she decided, on a whim, to accept one of the many invitations to dinner Rhys tossed around her like confetti. She wasn't sure who was more surprised when she met the latest invite with "Oh, why not? The Curry House this Friday?" The wolf whistles and whoops from the rest of the men following Rhys' air punch and emphatic "At bloody last!" drew Hunt from his lair but Ruby had been too busy loftily ignoring the commotion that surrounded her to notice the brief, surprised glance he'd shot her way.

Rhys – Dai, she'd better practise calling him Dai, was due in half an hour. She acknowledged that the plan wasn't without its flaws, she realised that by accepting she had given the green light to any other chancer in the station who fancied a go on the new DI. But, Ruby told herself, she could handle them. Better this than for Hunt to think she held some sort of torch for him; the idea had clearly alarmed him to the point where he could no longer look her in the eye. It was good that she was taking action to sort the situation out. She smiled at herself encouragingly in the mirror. Finally, her make-up and hair were finished and she moved on to perusing the contents of her wardrobe. She pulled on a bottle green shift dress with ¾ length sleeves that stopped just above her knees, accessorizing it with the hoop earrings and an armful of silver bracelets. Before she could zip up her black boots, a sharp rat-a-tat at the door startled her. Her mouth set in a grim line, if Rhys thought by turning up early he'd catch in her underwear, he'd better think again. She sighed, indulging in a pang of regret at the way things were turning out, before squaring her shoulders and heading through the kitchen towards the door. This was going to be a long night ...


	4. Chapter 4

Sergeant Dai Rhys waited, patiently. And as he waited, a plump expectant smile spread itself smugly across his face. He'd been looking forward to tonight for weeks; finally, some quality alone time with DI Chasseures. Oh, she'd played the game well, had the little lady. Made her phony excuses, pretended she wasn't interested ... but Rhys had persisted tirelessly, knowing damn well she wanted him really, could tell by the seductive way she wiggled around him in those skirts, the intense way she looked at him when he perched on the edge of her desk. He knew he was by far the most attractive option out of the selection of men available to her in CID. And, by God, she was the best looking plod he'd seen in a while. It made sense for tonight to happen, and thankfully she'd finally come round to his way of thinking. Of course he'd learnt his lesson after that unpleasant business in Cardiff but that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun, did it?

As Dai continued to wait, he ran his hands over his hair and his tongue over his teeth, working it pinkly, busily, into the crevices, dislodging a couple of strands of the cheap beef that had been lurking in the oxtail soup he'd had for lunch. The feel of his soft hair tumbling through his fingers ratcheted up his smug smile by a couple of notches. He'd been too busy working the Armstrong case to make his last barber's appointment but far from detracting from his appeal, he'd realised with delight that letting his hair dangle languidly over his eyes was like a shiny jewel to a magpie, women just couldn't help themselves but brush the highlighted strands back for him.

As he stood there, Dai reviewed his game plan for the evening. He'd recognised Chasseures' type straight away. All long words and Oh, Take Me Seriously whilst parading about with her perky tits and shapely legs – a real prick tease. So he was going to go for the earnest approach. Yeah, he'd spin her some lines about his mum, talk about his hopes before dropping his head, looking up at her through his eyelashes and his floppy fringe, and muttering something meaningful about his fears. He'd ask her questions too, putting his head on one side and doing his best listening face, for as long as it took to get the delectable DI into bed. A quick shag before pocketing her knickers in order to flash 'em round the canteen tomorrow – the proof needed to collect his prize money. Oh yes. Tonight was going to be a win for him on quite a few levels.

The door eased open ...

Look, even the bus was on time. Tonight was going to be his night.

Ruby stalked through her flat, eyes narrowing at the headache that was daring to brew. She had a few spiked words aimed and ready to dart at Sergeant Dai Rhys' inflated ego. Swinging open the door, the steam she'd worked up in response to the sergeant's presumed presumptive nature was blown away by the broad shoulders and strong back of the man that faced her. This wasn't Rhys ...

"Guv ...?"

Hunt turned to face her.

Hunt had got good at _Thinking Things Through_ over the last few months. And had recently realised that this new situation warranted yet more _Thinking_. He'd acknowledged, grimly, that the last thing he could stand was for history to repeat itself. Not after last time, not after Drake. Alex. He hadn't told her half of _what_ he should have, _when_ he should have. And then she'd gone, and left a bleeding weeping hole in his chest, in his life, and he had no one to blame for that but himself.

And he'd thought that had been his only chance, that Alex had been his only chance, and he'd missed it, missed her ... until he'd been confronted with _this_ woman ...

It was different, everything was different, it couldn't ever be the same – but, he'd realised, during all the thinking, that Ruby woke him up. It wasn't one thing about her he could pin down and identify. She was like a beach made up of patterned stones, intricate shells, opaque sea glass. Each day's footprint turned over something new. And Hunt liked what he saw. He watched her from his office – noticed the charm she dusted over his team, recognised the determination to prove herself that underpinned the smile. Her laugh tickled him, made his lips twitch. When they stayed late, sitting close, finishing off paper work, he liked to lean back and breathe in her perfume. She wrote with her nose close to the paper, he wondered if she needed glasses. Her eyes would slam wide open when an idea hit her. She would forget important words when she was excited and instead gesticulate wildly, talking about the thingy, the whatsit, your oojum.

It was lust. It was definitely like.

And that evening, the evening after they'd nailed Armstrong, she'd been a tantalising warm summer breeze, gusting gently around his frozen heart, with her inviting smiles and soft lips. It had alarmed him, he'd felt the pain of Alex leaving all over again and had instinctively slammed, clanged, locked down. But afterwards – when he'd got home, soothed his apple cart of nerves with a stabilising whiskey ... he'd given himself a good talking to. Told himself to man up, get involved. Just watching, being a spectator, wasn't good enough for the Gene Genie. Get back in it, lad.

Of course, the next day, the Ruby he'd been getting to know was nowhere to be found. Instead, a brittle thing had been left in her place. A brittle thing that couldn't look him in the eyes. What a couple of days that had been, with her there but _not_ there, utterly beyond his reach. A nagging, insistent part of him kept an eye on her regardless though, looked her way, watched storm clouds of thoughts scud choppily across her face. When that tit, Rhys, had paraded her acceptance round the office like some kind of trophy, well, Hunt had looked at Ruby again and even though he wasn't a mind reader, never claimed he was; he could see on her face that this wasn't what she wanted, why she'd said yes was anyone's guess, bloody women. After that, she'd been out of the office for most of the week what with one thing and another, and he'd missed her. Had to fight the urge not to glance up when the office door swung open. He liked having her where he could see her. And on those days leading up to Friday's big date, when she wasn't in the office, it was all he could do not to fucking well lash out and shut Rhys' filthy little mouth for him. Had to tell him more than once that he'd better show a bit of respect towards their DI. The last time he'd had to warn him, Rhys had finally taken heed of the ice cold anger that seeped through the words Hunt spoke because he had blanched a little and held his tongue in the Guv's presence from then on. But Hunt was under no illusions, was sure that the crude comments and vulgar hand gestures continued to be bandied blithely about when he wasn't in the office.

On Friday, Hunt slipped off early to the Greek where he'd sat at the bar, scowling. Doing more thinking. He didn't want _her_ going anywhere, least of all with _him_. Rhys. It was as simple and as complicated as that. Hunt's scowl intensified as he thought of the preening pretty excuse of a man he'd been lumbered with, on his team. As he sulked and waited for his brain to provide him with something that resembled a credible plan of action, Billy the Greek fussed round him maternally. He did everything bar take Hunt's temperature, convinced his favourite copper was sickening for something. Alarm caused his brows to lift higher and higher as Hunt declined shot after shot, sticking instead to the piss weak Greek lager Billy bought in by the crateful for the purists. Finally, Hunt made his excuses and left, still no closer to untangling the knotted ball of woolly half-thoughts someone had swapped his brain for. All he knew was that he was getting more agitated by the second. He set off down the road ...

... And it was with no real surprise that he found himself making his way towards the familiar green front door. He was let in by a grey haired dear on her way to the shops and before he knew it, his feet had marched him purposefully up the three flights of stairs until he was standing outside the door that led to Ruby's flat. His brain protested that it still hadn't come up with a plan, couldn't he just wait a minute, just wait a minute – but it was too late. He'd already knocked ...


End file.
